A Tangled Web (68 page)

“I have not been in trouble! Good Lord, Stephanie, you Americans see dark plots everywhere . . . it must be all those gangster movies. Have you really nothing else to think about?”

Frustrated, Stephanie contemplated him. “You're doing well; everything is fine—”

“Exactly. Exactly.” A jovial smile creased his face.

“—and there's been no reason in the past few years for you to look for other sources of income.”

His smile faded. “What an odd thing to say. Are you fabricating another plot?”

“Plots depend on secrets, Nicholas, and if anyone has them, you do. You'll have to excuse me; I have another appointment.”

Stymied, angry, she took a taxi to Cadogan Square. “I was no good at all. I didn't get anything out of him.”

Sabrina stepped into the skirt Stephanie had taken off. “You can't be subtle with Nicholas; he sees it as weakness.” She buttoned Stephanie's blouse and pulled on her tweed blazer. “You wore a hat, didn't you?”

“Your brown cloche. It's amazing how many clothes you still have here.”

“I only took the ones that are right for Evanston.” She veered away from that subject. “Have you told me everything he said?”

“Yes. It wasn't exactly a long conversation.”

“Well, we're about to begin the second act.”

She studied Blackford's windows before going in. They were dusty and the displays were the same she had seen when she was there in the spring. Sloppy or uninterested or broke, she thought. Maybe all three. She pushed open the door and a small bell announced her arrival.

Nicholas appeared from the back room. Annoyance
spread over his face. “My dear Stephanie, more questions? This does begin to resemble an interrogation.”

Sabrina took note of the dust on the furniture, the visible price tags that should have been tucked away, the ragged displays of books and cushions, a lampshade askew. “What an interesting choice of words, Nicholas. One thinks of prisoners being interrogated. Is that what you see in your future?”

His bouncing feet stilled. He sighed. “We're back to gangster films again. Really, my dear Stephanie, you have a narrow, uninformed view of the world, quite American, of course, but I thought some of your sister's knowledge and sophistication would have rubbed off on you.”

“I would have thought ‘narrow and uninformed' describes anyone whose main vocabulary is insults. Is that the only way you can talk to me, Nicholas? I came back because we never discussed your finances, or how you augmented them when Blackford's started to go down—”

“
Augmented?
I told you—”

“You told me nothing that was true or useful. Your shop looks as if you've abandoned it already; I assume, in your mind, you have.”

“Ridiculous. Blackford's is my life. I would have nothing if I lost it. This is a temporary slowdown, nothing else. I'll recover from it; I always do.”

“You've lost the ability to recover. At one time you were a good dealer, Nicholas; you knew antiques and you had a real love for them. But now you're just hanging on: a frightened, failed businessman stupid enough to ride on the coattails of the wrong people.”

“Good heavens, what's happened to you? You were quite reasonable this morning. It's quite confusing, Stephanie, and I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about.”

“Your partnership with Rory Carr and Ivan Lazlo.”

Nicholas took a step back. Dust motes hung in the air and he seemed to waver in their midst. “I don't know anything about Rory Carr and Ivan Lazlo.”

“You know everything about them. I've just been to Wormwood Scrubs. They told me you'd stopped—”

“
You went to Wormwood Scrubs?
”

“—visiting them. They're angry that you're free and they're locked up. They say you're being selfish and only worrying about yourself. Rory says he misses your talks about art.”

Nicholas's face was ashen. “They shouldn't have said anything.”

“Why not? What did you promise them?”

He shook his head. His hands twisted around each other; one toe tapped spastically on the wooden floor. He looked at it as if willing it to stop, but it had a life of its own. Still looking at it, he said, “You see, it was a brief madness, Stephanie. Madness. I knew it, but I couldn't stop it.”

Sabrina's steady gaze betrayed none of the relief that swept through her. Not a bad bluff, she thought. “Yes,” she said, encouraging him.

“That's all.” He looked up and backed farther away. “There's nothing else to say. It's over.”

“Hardly. I have contacts in London, you know, through my sister. I think the authorities would listen to me if I went to them.”

“But you wouldn't! What would you gain? I told you: it's over. Westbridge is gone, and in any event I would have stopped; I worried about it, you know, all of it.”

“All but the money. And that was much more important than your integrity and your honesty with your customers.”

He flinched. “I didn't
want
to do it, you know. That's what I meant about a madness . . . You won't tell anyone, will you?”

“Not today. Today I'm looking for information.”

“About what?” It was a whisper.

“How it worked. All of it.”

“And you'll keep it to yourself?”

“At least for today.”

“That's not very reassuring, Stephanie.” He waited.
“Well, of course there's no proof . . . it would be your word against mine. And who would believe you? You're an American.”

Sabrina burst out laughing. It unnerved Nicholas, and his hands fluttered, but in another minute he brightened, as if he had convinced himself that now they were friends. “Come on, Nicholas,” Sabrina said. “Tell me how it worked.”

“Well.” His foot tapped; he put both hands on his thigh to still it. “It really wasn't so much, you know. I did need money, and they needed a reputable gallery for the forged pieces Rory couldn't sell anywhere else. I did fret over it, but it was so absurdly easy and no one questioned the authenticity of the pieces and after a while it was just another business. Of course it was wrong—I knew that—but we all do wrong things in our lives and I wasn't really harming anyone; I'm really a very productive member of society. I certainly don't deserve to be punished; I provided a service and ran my little business very quietly. It really was quite little, you know; quite tiny compared to Max's. He and his partner were the important part of Westbridge: Rory and Ivan and I were little cogs in a very big wheel.”

“Partner? There was nothing in the newspapers about a partner.”

“Well, I don't know absolutely that there was one.” Nicholas was talking faster, the words spurting out as if they had been bottled up and now, at last, shot forth to point in the direction of this anonymous person left over from Westbridge, still free, still without worries. “But, you know, I was puzzled by how easily Max found clients—princes, kings, presidents, the wealthiest of the international set—and he always knew what art they wanted for their collections. I asked him about it once, but he brushed me off as if I were a fractious child; he was quite abrupt. So after a time it occurred to me that he must have someone high up, perhaps even a member of royalty, who had access to these people all around the world and could
set things up. Of course I had no proof, but it seemed to make sense.”

“Yes.” Each person leads to another, she thought. All of them tangled in webs of secrets and schemes . . . and murder. “And I'm sure you found out who it was.”

“To my deep regret I did not. It wasn't as if one could ask his secretary if Max had a silent partner; as far as I could tell, he kept his records in his head and did most of his business at his club. One never knew whether he was mingling socially or doing business there.”

“What was his club?”

“The Monarch. On Regency Street.”

“Thank you.” She turned to the door, then turned back. “By the way, Princess Alexandra Martova is buying Ambassadors from me. I think it would be best if you sold her Blackford's.”

“Sell Blackford's? Never. You're being quite highhanded, Stephanie. Sabrina never would have spoken to me in such a way; she would have understood that this shop is all I have left in the world. I'm not surprised you're selling Ambassadors; after all, it's not as if you're really part of London. But I will not even discuss selling Blackford's.”

“You may change your mind. As you say, what you did was wrong, in fact it was criminal, and Rory and Ivan may not keep that to themselves forever.”

“They have no reason to talk about me. None.”

“Because you promised to take care of them? Money, a house, a warm climate?”

“Good God, no! I said I'd do what I could if they needed help, but I don't have the resources to support them for the rest of their lives.”

True, Sabrina thought. So it was someone else who had made that promise.

“But what if you can't give them any help at all? They already feel betrayed by you, Nicholas; would they tell the police about you if you gave them nothing?” She opened the door. “Of course, if you sold Blackford's you'd have
enough money to protect yourself, maybe even to start another shop, something on a smaller scale.”

Nicholas stood with his head bowed, his hands clasped beneath his chin, as if in prayer. He stood there for a long time. “What would she pay?”

“Fifty thousand pounds for the inventory and your client list. I'm sure that list is quite small by now.”

His head came up. “Fifty thousand! That's nothing. The reputation of Blackford's—”

“Has gone steadily downhill. And it will be worth nothing if your involvement in the forgeries comes out. Fifty thousand is what I will suggest that Princess Martova pay.”

Nicholas looked around his shop. The tapping of his foot was loud in the silence. “I'll have nothing left.”

An appropriate punishment for the forgeries, which, after all, no one can prove.

At last a long sigh came from his slack lips. “Have her solicitor call me. I'll talk to him. I don't promise that I'll accept such an absurd offer, but I'll talk to him.”

“Goodbye, Nicholas.” She closed the door softly behind her.

In the gathering darkness, she hesitated; then, on impulse, she took a taxi to the Monarch Club on Regency Street. “Wait for me,” she said, and started up the steps of the gray stone town house, one of three, side by side, that made up the exclusive men's club. Women were not allowed inside, but she planned to talk to the concierge at the doorway.

She stopped halfway up the steps. Above her, Alan Lethridge was coming through the door, laughing heartily at a friend's remark. He met Sabrina's eyes. “Hello again,” he said, still smiling, and then he remembered their conversation and his smile faded. He stood a few steps above her while his companion went on, not realizing Alan had remained behind.

“Alan,” Sabrina said pleasantly. “I think we should have a talk.”

His companion turned. “What's up, Alan? They're waiting for us.”

“I'm late,” Alan said to Sabrina. “I'm meeting Jana.”

Once again she thought how much like Cliff he was: sullen, angry, but unable to push past her, held by the authority in her voice and stance.

“This shouldn't take long,” she said. “We'll just take a short walk.”

He looked helplessly at his companion. “I guess I'll meet you. Tell Jana I'll be there in a minute. As soon as I can.”

Sabrina took his arm and they strolled along the street, past the shops closing for the evening, past restaurants poised for the evening to begin. “You didn't tell me you were a member of Max's club.”

“Why should I? I don't see why you give a damn whether I am or not.”

“I give a damn because you told me you'd barely recognize Max if you saw him, that you never saw him except at parties and maybe the races, and you never talked to him. And I'm wondering why you lied about that.”

Alan walked beside her, slouching, his hands in his pockets.

“You knew Max,” Sabrina said, so softly that Alan had to lean sideways to hear her. “And Jana told you that Max was alive when everyone thought he was dead. And you passed that on. But you weren't thinking about what you were doing. Why do you think he was hiding in France? What if his life was in danger? Max has always had enemies; everyone knows that. What if you put him in danger by talking? Do you know what you've done?”

“I haven't done anything!”

“You broke a promise. You exposed someone who was hiding from danger. You put him at risk.”

“You don't know that for sure!”

“How do you know? You don't know very much, Alan. You talk too much without thinking about possible consequences.
Now I'm asking you one more time. Who was it? Whom did you tell?”

“Christ, why do you care so much? What difference does it make?”

“It makes a difference. You don't need to know why.”

“
Why?
Is he dead or something?”

“Do you want that on your conscience?”

“I just want you to leave me alone!” He stopped walking and stared at his shoes. “I promised Jana . . .” He scuffed one shoe on the sidewalk. “Denton,” he blurted. “He'd been out of his mind, you know, wondering if Max was really dead—they didn't find the body, he kept saying that—so I thought he ought to know that Max was alive. Put his mind at rest. I told him in confidence. Absolute confidence. I'm sure he kept it to himself.”

Sabrina was staring past him at the trees spaced along the street.

It occurred to me that he must have someone high up, perhaps even a member of royalty . . .

Max and his partner were the important part of Westbridge.